After
by 0torno
Summary: Maedhros and Maglor walk by the sea, and go their separate ways.


In the morning the grey sea crashed violently on sharpened rocks and gulls wheeled under the pale sky, crying their discontent until it was lost on the cool breeze; and the last sons of Fëanor walked.

The loose stones grated under their feet as they silently came to a consensus and agreed to stop, perching on an outcropping overlooking the cold water. They placed the two silmarils, glowing as white flame, on the ground. Hair red like fire whipped across his face in a sudden gust of wind as Maedhros lowered himself onto the rock, relieved from the pain of holding the gem, and spoke bitterly.

"At last, here we are on the shores of the sea: two silmarils before us and our father's oath finally fulfilled." Maedhros' lips turned up weakly, though the light did not reach his eyes. "They are beautiful, Maglor. I am glad we got them back, even if they burn us. Everything was worth it." But the lack of conviction in his voice almost made Maedhros wince. He hesitated, eyes closing briefly as if in prayer. "Brother... _Was_ it worth it?"

Maglor sighed, settling more comfortably on the rock. "We defied the Valar. We slew our kin three times. We left Findekáno and our uncle's people - loyal friends - behind. We killed innocent women and children in the name of an oath we barely thought through, an oath derived from pure lust." To Maedhros the words felt like a slap, a just wakeup call long overdue. He had not expected his brother to be so brutally honest; it was not his way. And yet, the words _were_ honest... and was there still blood under his own fingernails from Sirion...?

"But," Maglor continued, "We stand under the grey sky as oath-fulfillers, elves of honor. The last sons of Fëanor, the quest that has defined our lives complete. And the silmarils: blazing, dazzling our waking eyes with the light of a thousand suns! They glitter as the ocean waves, the stars above in the evening. The glow of the Two Trees and the life of Arda is reflected in their shimmering facets."

Maedhros felt his face break into a true smile, tired but real. His brother was right; these gems were worth the blood spilled, were they not?

"It was worth it, Maglor, wasn't it?"

"No."

Maglor sighed again and shook his head. "Maedhros, I've already told you of the dangers of listening too trustingly to a poet. His twists the meaning to fit what he wants you to see."

Frowning, Maedhros kicked at the ground so that his toes almost touched the silmaril: so hard-won, so beautiful and hallowed and lethal. Too pure and perfect for someone like him to hold, so perfect it scorched his flesh with waves of searing heat when he touched it.

"These hands of mine are so bloody," Maedhros said quietly. "So much death, so much wrath and guilt and revenge for nothing at all. These hands took so much and gave so very little. I am a waste... a kinslayer and a sinner, a blind and wrathful fool who does not deserve to live." He spat the words with violent satisfaction and they rushed from his lips in sadistic joy at finally being free.

"Do not say that," Maglor said fiercely. "Every person who walks this earth deals in both darkness and beauty; it is up to us to choose which we allow to define us. You are only a waste if you allow your shadows to overcome your light, brother."

"What light have I given the world, Maglor? All I have done is either selfish or unspeakably cruel, in the name of our father and our oath."

"That is not true. You gave the kingship to Nolofinwë and defended Himring. You organized the Union, led our armies against the Morgoth! You saved many lives!"

"More often by taking them than not. All my deeds are soaked in blood, whether servants of the enemy or children of our kin. Not that I regret the former," he added, "But I am not a creator like you. I am a destroyer, a twister of good things into bad. Truly, the curse did not strike you with as strong a blow; your songs are just as sweet when they close as when they are begun in beauty. Whereas all that I begin ends evilly. The Nírnaeth Arnoediad was no victory, Maglor." Maedhros said tightly, passing a hand across his eyes. "Our forces were scattered and defeated by Morgoth Bauglir. And... Findekáno was killed," he said bitterly. "Had I not delayed foolishly at false council, perhaps we could have succeeded."

"That defeat was the fault of the betrayers, and had nothing to do with you. Your plan was good, Maedhros. We could have achieved victory if all of our forces had been loyal." Maglor regarded his brother with head to one side. "And, 'These hands,' brother? I might point out that you have only one. If you are going to attempt to be poetic, at least have it make sense."

Maedhros knew his brother was only trying to lighten the mood, but the comment still stung. It had been a lifetime since Thangorodrim and yet he could never shake the occasional stabs of pain and self-consciousness because of the stump. He shifted uncomfortably and hid his right arm in the folds of his cloak.

"I'm sorry," Maglor said. "I did not intend to embarrass you."

"It's all right," Maedhros said stiffly. "I should leave the poetry to you. You are the artist, I am the killer. Better to stick to our roles." He shifted his right arm again, averting his eyes from the now-revealed stump.

"I am a killer too, Maedhros."

"A reluctant one, at least. Repentant."

"So are you," Maglor pointed out skeptically.

Maedhros just grunted.

The waves pounded on the rocks, sending a salty spray of cool mist curling into the air as gulls screamed mournfully, lamenting all the death. Maedhros shivered. The grey sea was daunting today, cold and lifeless despite its shimmering surface, and suddenly Maedhros needed something other than the formidable impartiality that surrounded him in the rushing water and shards of gray stone. "Don't let us speak of these dark things forever... Come, little brother, will you sing for me?"

Maedhros closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the chill ocean breeze on his feverish skin. He could picture Maglor, small smile in place, pulling out his lute and saying, as his fingers began to dance lightly over the strings, 'This is the ballad of Maedhros and Maglor, eldest sons of Fëanor. Their tale is a sad one, and a long, but it ends in happiness.' And then he would begin to sing, sweet voice rising and falling skillfully over the rippling of gentle music.

But when Maglor finally responded, his voice was soft. He sounded vulnerable and small, a poet finally defeated by the lack of artistry in the harsh world around him.

"I don't feel like singing, Maitimo."

The words were heartbreaking; a simple phrase, and yet one that Maedhros had never heard his brother utter before. A phrase that spoke not of mood but of an era; the new age where Maglor the Mighty Singer sang no more. Crushed.

Broken.

Maedhros choked back the scream of anger that followed his initial pity, swallowing hard; even at the end of all things, he had to be the strong one? Why could Maglor not comfort him for once?

Clenching his jaw, Maedhros ignored the selfish voice and pulled his younger brother into a tight embrace. "It's all right, Makalaurë. It's all right, my little Kana," he murmured sorrowfully into Maglor's soft hair. He felt his brother's shoulders shake with sobs and clutched tighter, wanting nothing more than to break down similarly but the emotions would not come; he had suddenly nothing but numbness and ache.

The sombre sky and the pale curtain of cloud over the roaring sea reminded Maedhros of Alqualondë, his earliest true betrayal and the beginning of the insanity. And the memories, the pain and the heartache, of all that had happened before and since rose in him until Maedhros wanted to pitch himself off the craggy rocks into the rushing water.

He could, too.

But Maglor deserved better.

"Brother..." His voice was uncertain, weak, but now at last he knew what to do, even if telling Maglor would take strength he didn't know if he had. "I am going to make an end. I... I know what to do now, to be happy. To get redemption. I think this is the only way it could ever go, in the end."

Maglor raised his tear-stained face. "Will you come back, Nelyo? I think I will stay here, by the sea. Will you ever return to visit me?"

Maedhros wanted to smile reassuringly at his brother, even if it was feeble and sad, but he was suddenly incapable. The muscles of his face felt frozen, too tired for anything but weeping. It was funny; he had thought he was beyond emotions this intense, but all the regret and sorrow of a thousand years' immorality finally welled up to the surface and Maedhros shed a single tear.

"I don't think so, Kana," he whispered, voice tight. "I don't think I shall come back from this journey."

Maglor nodded slowly. "I will miss you, Maitimo. I'm sorry it has come to this." His eyes were dark with sadness and the weight of comprehension, and it was to his credit that Maglor understood his brother enough to let him go. He stood and took Maedhros' hand in both of his own.

"Maitimo."

"Yes, Makalaurë?"

"Aurë entuluva, brother. Are you certain this is what you want?"

"Yes."

Maglor bent and swept up the two silmarils, wincing briefly at the renewed pain. He dropped one lightly into his brother's palm. Still unsmiling, Maedhros clenched it in his fist despite the searing agony and kissed his brother's forehead. He put his hand on Maglor's shoulder, searching his eyes through the haze of pain.

"You'll be alright." It was not a question, but a statement. Maglor was an artist, but he was also a fighter; a Fëanorion, too mad and stubborn to ever truly be defeated. He smiled weakly at Maedhros.

"I think so, Russandol," he said. "I will find my own way of atoning, if I can."

Maedhros turned to go, but hesitated. "Promise me one thing, Makalaurë? Do not cease your singing. It would be a loss to all of Arda if the voice of Maglor went silent."

Maglor was solemn now, no ghost of lightheartedness playing on his countenance. He drew his sword and raised it to the sky in a grim salute, and it shone with the cold, harsh glare of the chill morning as his voice rang mockingly through the air. "I swear by the name of the Maker, an oath which none shall break; that I will never allow my music to die, nor to grow cold and passionless. I swear with Manwë and Varda and the hallowed mountain of Taniquetil as my witnesses that I shall pursue quality of music alike to that of the Beginning itself! If I should forsake this vow, let the Everlasting Dark-"

"You should not jest of such things," Maedhros hissed, livid. Maglor slowly sheathed his sword.

"I apologize, Maedhros," he said coldly. "That might have been in bad taste."

He was never meant to deal with this kind of insanity.

Red hair whipping in the wind, Maedhros raised his chin. "Indeed. Perhaps in the long cold that awaits you shall be able to refine your sense of humor." But his gaze softened.

"Mára Mesta, little brother. May your life be as you would wish in length and quality."

Then he turned away, silmaril in hand, and strode off without looking back.

Maglor remained deep in thought, motionless on the shore long after his brother departed, as his mind considered, carefully but with much feeling, the course he should next take.

Maedhros, however, put the silmaril in his pocket and mounted his horse and flew in utmost haste to a place he had seen years before: a mouth of fire, one of the great chasms of the earth delving into the belly of the world and the wrath of lava. He considered little his actions but his mind was also with little passion, and so it was that no rush of exhilaration or anger came upon him as he turned loose his horse and stepped gingerly to the very edge of the void.

A gust of hot, reeking breath blew upwards from the crack and brought with it the smell of molten iron, a scent sharp and choking but familiar to Maedhros from the forges of his father. The heated wind from below raised his hair about his face and filled his nostrils with burning dust as it rustled his clothes. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, sucking in the acrid fumes. The sensation was as heating up inside from a fever, but Maedhros did not feel ill; his mind grew warm and blurred as the heat distorted his vision, turning the stones around him to pale trembling reflections on water, like the fountains in Tirion...

He could still hear the sea moaning in the distance behind him, crashing on rocks and churning the depths of the water. The world spun for a moment and Maedhros nearly fell. He put a hand to his forehead and sank to his knees, unbuckling his belt. His gaze fell on his sword for a moment, the left-handed sword Curufin had made to hang on his right hip. Then he wrenched it from the sheath and hefted its weight, suddenly backbreaking, and tossed it into the chasm without really knowing why. It spun and glittered as it fell, rending the smoke so that the blood red glare on its blade grew briefly brighter before disappearing into the depths.

Maedhros dug the fingers of his left hand into the loose shale, scrabbling for a handhold as he grew dizzy once more, the ground seeming to tilt around him. He took in another deep breath and filled his lungs with the thick, fragrant air exhaling from the crack.

Forcing himself up, he gritted his teeth and stood again, swaying, on the lip of the precipice as the smoke cleared. A fiery light stabbed into the grey air, dazzling Maedhros with a brilliant glow and a new wave of heat borne on a gust of air. The fire of life, violent and tender and passionate and cold.

Maedhros took the silmaril in his hand, and looked at it; and to him its beauty was diminished beside the flowing magma and the warm, safe glow of an end.

And he let the jewel his father made - the jewel paid for with so much blood - slip from his fingers. It twisted as it dropped, glinting in the red before it was swallowed up by smoke and Maedhros could see it no more.

"Auta i lómë," he smiled.

Then he stepped forwards into the emptiness.

And he fell.


End file.
